Patience and Understanding.

He sits in the audience, alone.
He has paid his admission. The box office girl was expecting him and the greeter sat him in an aisle seat, as requested. The one closest to the door.
Everyone else was drunk or drinking, but not him. He didn't even sip a coffee at the show.
Everyone else was loud and raucous and animated, but not him. He quietly sat there, waiting patiently for the show to begin.

And it did...

The show opened with a dirty, can-can sort of thing, that transitioned quickly into the old bump and grind. The pretty girls bucked and wiggled and jiggled and looked at the audience with unhidden lust, while the dirty saxophones dripped oily in the background, getting everyone a little damp. So nasty.

And the host came out and did a few jokes.
And someone sang a song.
And a magician made some cards disappear and reappear.
And the host did some more jokes.
And a girl with Come Hither and Often Eyes slowly peeled off her clothes and shook her fleshy areas at the audience.
And someone ate some fire or told some old Borscht-belt jokes or did both at the same time, simultaneously.

He smiled at the jokes and was impressed by the magicians skill. He applauded the magician. But the singer didn't interest him and the jokes were not to his liking. The fire added a new element to the routine though.

And then the host introduced Her and he leaned forward in his seat, expectantly.

She was beautiful. So beautiful. It made his old heart ache a little bit.

She had the most pale skin, almost completely absent of pigmentation. Like a doll of some sort. Her hair was a fair blonde and her eyes were a firey, deep blue. She wore a black velvet gown with a low neck that showed off the delicate collarbones of her chest. Red lipstick. Black gloves. And on top, a black top hat, with a veil that hung down in the back, almost to the floor. She stepped into the light and grasped the microphone like it was a lover and the music began.

The backing track was a warbly, tinny record emanating directly from France, circa 1930. An accordian gamely set the tune and a violin danced around it, slowly and somberly.

She sharply looked up at the audience with her cold, blue eues and opened her mouth and let forth a deep, throaty moan, which slowly pulsed and turned into the first line of the song.

French. She was singing in French.

A slow, sad song about innocense lost and hearts broken. Love squandered. The words were incomprehensible, but the meaning was not. It was about loss and moving on past it, stronger for the experience.

At times, he closed his eyes and listened to her. The words washed over him like a warm tide coming in and completely took him away. He got lost in them, for a time. It was precisely what he wanted to happen.

At the end of the song, a violin/accordian duet began and She gamely sung along, exhibiting the cultured boredom that the effete French women sometimes exhibit. She raised her hand to her hat, as if to curtsey politely. She tipped the hat up and a cardboard butterfly was revealed resting softly on top of her head. She reached up and pulled the butterfly down, pulsating its wings naturally. It seemed to be resting on her hand, pulsating its wings, while she sang the last verse to it.

At the last second, as the song was ending, she snatched the butterfly and ripped it into shreds. A violent, ugly burst of rage that seemed to come from nowhere. Or maybe from the lyrics, which no one could understand. Releasing the cardboard fragments, they drifted down to the floor. It was a total surprise. They audience was a little shocked.

She bowed nobly and the audience registered its praise with loud applause. They were so absorbed in their praise, that no one noticed the old man in the seat by the row. He clapped too and then quietly got up and exited the theater. Half a show remained but he wouldn't see it. Two numbers later, she would come out, dressed as a China Doll and a piece at a time, remove her costume until she was wearing only a mask and her white garters and a G-String. Her tiny girls body offered up willingly to the audience, who would sit there quietly, devouring her up, without a single touch.

Only one person would not see that dance and the salacious moment that followed it. The older gentleman who left early.

He was her father. And he came to see the show, to support her. He may not have been comfortable with watching her remove her clothes in the second number. But he loved her voice. His little girl. And she sang a slow, sad song that moved him and everyone around him. he could not have been more proud of her. He thought lovingly of her, for the whole car ride home.

That's a true story, friends. All of that happened at The Belmont Burlesque Review a few months ago. I was the Greeter who sat the Father and consequently knew that he would be leaving before her strip routine began.

I was impressed that he took the time to come, anyways. Just to see her sing. To support her and let her know that she was loved, ducking out quietly before the show explored territory that he was unable to explore.

Compromise. Patience. Understanding.

That's a good parent.

COB out...